Time and Time Again
by TheWinchesterFest
Summary: Dean's leaving. Sam gives him a piece of his mind. Contains strong language.


Sam had been waiting for this. He'd been waiting for the moment Dean grabbed his bag and said 'fuck it' to everything. The way Dean cut their conversations short when the topic of God or angels came up became more and more frequent to the point where Sam just didn't say anything at all. He was disappointed Dean would give up so easily on something just because he was let down once. Well, twice. On second thought, every damn time. He turned his back on God if he existed because he felt God had turned his back on him.

What Sam _hadn't_ been waiting for was Dean shutting the door on his face. He couldn't understand why Dean was so ready and willing to pack his bags and hit the road and go God knows where without him in the passenger's seat. He hadn't done anything but try to talk some sense into Dean about not giving up on something that wasn't a lost cause just yet.

He couldn't remember when they had reached that point where they didn't speak at all but just lay in separate beds quietly breathing, looking into nothing until they fell asleep. The only time they conversed was professionally on a hunt, sharing opinions and plans until the problem was solved. Then Dean would tell him how tired he was, how sick he was of everything. People, hunting, killing, searching for something that wasn't there. He had shut Sam out in the process. Whether it was intentional or not, Sam didn't know.

But he knew Dean. He knew he would reach a point where he just wanted to get the hell out. Go. Somewhere, away, far away. _Alone_. Because he thought that would make everything better. It only infuriated Sam to know Dean was about to walk out on him, like he wasn't there, like he didn't even matter.

So when he woke up at 4 a.m. to Dean's boots in the hall of Bobby's house, he knew it was happening. When he pulled his jeans on and silently padded down the stairs his suspicions were confirmed and there was his brother opening the door to leave, duffle bag over his shoulder, keys jingling in his hand. The anger boiled inside of him and he crossed the distance to the door in four long strides before yanking the door open just as Dean shut it.

He almost wanted to laugh at Dean's surprise when he stumbled onto the porch behind him but he was so full of pent up rage all he could do was rear his fist back and send a punch into Dean's face. Dean tripped on his foot as he tumbled back from the force of Sam's fist meeting his face until he fell back against a post that Sam made sure he stayed against.

"The fuck, Sam!" Dean gasped around the arm at his throat.

"Where do you plan on going?" He pressed harder against Dean's throat. "Where do you think you can run to where your life won't catch up to you?"

All Dean could do was gasp for air. Sam dropped his hold and waited for a reply as Dean rubbed his neck. "It doesn't matter where I go. As long as I'm _gone_."

That earned him another punch. Then Sam was pacing, hands trying to decide on whether to settle on his hips or pull at his hair in frustration.

"Is that all you can think about? Trying to get to a place where you don't hurt anymore, to a place where you don't have to worry or think about anything?" He was yelling, not really caring if the town five miles out could hear him or not. Dean just stared up at him as he touched his bleeding lip lightly from where he sat on the porch, back against the rail.

"Do you really think so little of me to think you leaving wouldn't have some kind of effect? Because it fucking _would_, Dean. If you'd talk to me you might know that."

"Talking doesn't solve anything, Sam." Dean said quietly from his place on the wood flooring. Sam stepped forward but stopped when Dean shrank slightly in on himself, expecting another punch.

"You could listen. Just, listen. For five minutes." He said and sat down on the porch in front of Dean, who crossed his legs and looked up wearily.

Sam knew Dean didn't want to hear anything. He knew his brother wanted to get in the Impala and just ride until everything disappeared, but he had to let him know what it would do to him if Dean did.

"You remember when Gabriel had me going on at the Mystery Spot?" He asked, Dean nodded. "He did it to prepare me for when you'd die. Having to wake up, Tuesday after Tuesday, just knowing you were gonna die in my arms all over again was so . . . ." he stopped and looked past Dean into the scrap yard at nothing in particular, searching for the word, "I can't even describe it. I thought it would get to a point where I couldn't feel anything anymore, but it hit me like a twelve-gauge, Dean. Every. Fucking. Time." Sam pointed to his heart. "Right here."

Dean shifted silently making himself more comfortable against the wood.

"And I never told you what it was like right after you really died; went to Hell."

"Ruby."

"No." Sam shook his head, his voice reaching a minimum. "Felt like my chest had caved in. I could eat, but couldn't keep it down. Could lie in a bed, but couldn't sleep. I'd just stare at the ceiling, thinking about you. I'd cry, God, I'd cry so fucking hard." He took a deep breath, trying to relax before his emotions got the better of him. Dean's eyes were heavy on him, he was listening. "I'd think about how stupid and stubborn you could be, but didn't know how much I loved it until you weren't there. I missed you like . . . ," he shuddered and closed his eyes, "Christ, I don't know. It was like I couldn't breathe."

He heard Dean take in a long drawn out breath. And to hear that made him ache. He felt his lip tremble before he pressed on. "The things I did." He shook his head. "I drank until I passed out or woke up in somebody else's bed. I beat the fuck out of some burly sleaze that wanted to start shit. Called me a faggot for crying at a bar. It didn't make me feel any better after I reduced his face to a bloody pulp. I'm still wanted for that, so stay away from Denver." He tried to grin and looked up at Dean. "Nothing made me feel better. Not even Ruby. She just helped me accept it after I couldn't find a way to bring you back. Didn't change the way I felt."

"And then all of sudden you were there. I know it always weirded you out when I would just watch you sometimes. You brushing your teeth, cleaning your gun, anything. I just couldn't get over it. I thought that at any second I was gonna wake up and you'd be gone again. So I tried to soak in the sight of you any chance I could just in case you did vanish."

"Sam—"

"I know that what you've been through is so much worse than my sappy tale of life without you. I know you've been down there, seen things, done things. I know you're not willing to tell me about it any time soon and I know you're running from yourself, running form you're past. But you need to know what you're doing to me, Dean. You need to know that if you try to leave, I'm gonna look for you. And I'm not gonna stop, because I can't keep my head on straight if you're not there to hold it steady."

He waited for a word to come from Dean's mouth, but he kept his eyes on his hands like they were the most interesting thing at the moment. So Sam stood and walked for the front door leaving Dean to his choice.

"You can stay with me, or you can go. You can drive until world ends, but know I'm going to be right there behind you. Because even if you've given up on everything and yourself, I haven't. You're my brother and my life." He paused, opening the door and looking back, "And I love you, Dean. No matter what." He watched Dean's head snap up, met his eyes, then walked inside letting the door fall into place behind him.

He felt better, if anything. That heaviness that was pressing down on his shoulders was gone. The five o'clock sun started shining behind the trees, pouring light into the tiny kitchen of Bobby Singer's house. Sam's toes were cold against the wood as he made his way to the refrigerator, debating on whether to drink a beer this early or not. He settled on a root beer instead then glanced over at all the car keys hanging from their hooks on the wall. He'd take the Mustang if he had to, it still had good mileage and a full tank of gas, so the Impala wouldn't get too far before he caught up.

He plucked the pair of keys from their hook, two in all. One for Bobby's house, the other for the Mustang then headed up stairs to make sure his bag was packed like it had been his entire life. He shoved his feet into his shoes and pulled on an old Black Sabbath t-shirt Dean had given him because it was too big for his smaller frame. He couldn't help feeling rushed to get his shit together and get back downstairs to listen for the Impala's engine roaring to life.

It never did.

Then the screen door swung open calmly and in stepped Dean. Sam sat in his chair in the kitchen and listened to Dean's bag hit the floor with a thud and his keys clink as they fell onto the table beside the door. There was a slow sigh of resignation as Dean stepped into the kitchen, oblivious to Sam sitting behind him in the corner quietly watching. Dean opened the refrigerator, contemplated, then pulled out a root beer instead of beer. He leaned against the counter and twisted the cap off with the end of his shirt and took a gulp.

Dean flicked his eyes in Sam's direction finally seeing him sitting in the corner of the room. Sam sat with his elbow on the table, head resting on his hand as he ran his thumb over the label peeling from his bottle. Dean took another sip.

"You watchin' me?" He asked and he could see the grin pull at Sam's lips.

"Yeah," Sam said. He brought his other hand down and rolled the bottle between his hands, "Don't want you disappearing on me."

Dean made his way over, boots thumping on the old wood. His lip had stopped swelling, now there just a small red cut and a nick on his right cheekbone. Sam could see everything Dean was battling in eyes slowly fade. His expression turned soft and he grinned. No, he smiled. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Good, didn't feel like chasing after your ass anyhow." Sam said waiting for Dean to smack him upside the head, but he didn't, he just looked at the floor. Before he could look up again his head was on Sam's shoulder, body flush against him in a hug that meant more they'd ever admit. He let his arms fall around Sam and tighten. He breathed in the scent of Sam's Black Sabbath shirt he'd given him, the shirt they never could get to stop smelling like the trunk of the Impala no matter how much they washed it.

Then it all hit him at once. How had he been so ready to leave this? His fingers curled with shirt in his fists and he didn't think before he turned his head and buried it in Sam's neck. He felt his face grow warm and he knew he would cry if he opened his mouth. He prayed Sam could hear his apology in the pressure of his breath against his throat, hoped he could feel it in the way he was clinging to him like he was the only thing there holding him down to the earth.

"Don't say it." Came Sam's whisper against his ear. "You're forgiven, but I need you to talk to me every now and then. Just let me know what's going on inside that thick skull of yours. As much as I'd like to read your mind, I can't. So you've gotta help me out."

Dean nodded into Sam's neck, pulling away and swallowing. "Yeah."

Sam tapped his cheek with a light slap of his hand and smiled, "No more chick flick moments."

Dean shoved him as he picked up his bottle and tossed it in the trash before retrieving another from the fridge. "That shirt still reeks, by the way."

"It was either this," Sam plucked at the shirt on his chest, "or my Stanford one."

Dean nodded and stood closer, "Yeah, Black Sabbath's way better." He grinned, "Looks good on you anyway."

Sam brow lifted, knowing Dean was bullshitting, but still too happy he was still here to really care, "Really?"

Dean pursed his lips, "Makes you look like a girl."

The rest of their day was spent either teasing, wrestling, eating, or drinking. Things hadn't been like this in months and neither of them really gave a damn what Bobby was thinking to himself as he watched them roll in the dirt laughing, throwing punches into each other's gut. They washed the Impala then blared old school rock that echoed throughout the scrap yard as they dried and waxed their black beauty to a shine.

They knew they'd have to discuss their problems sooner rather than later and they'd have to get back to hunting. But for now they would settle back into the carefree routine of being brothers that kicked each other's ass and held each other together.

* * *

><p>I've had this typed for a little while now. And for the past week, my computer has had to bravely battle viruses. Poor fella, he's a 2007 Vaio laptop on his last leg, about to die of old age, but hey, we still get by. :) So, once the viruses were defeated and my computer started working again, I decided that since I haven't been able to work on 'A Married Man' at all, I'd put this up and hope that it compensated for my lack of writing while I work on the next chapter for AMM.<p> 


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